


Break Apart

by wbss21



Category: Crimson Peak - Fandom
Genre: Bullying, Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, F/M, Incest, Isolation, Manipulation, Mental Abuse, Neglect, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, brain washing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbss21/pseuds/wbss21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sees him there, standing at the door's threshold, fingers curled tight over the frame of it, peeking at her from behind the wall.  He's crying, his eyes wet and bloodshot, tears slipping silently down his pale, gaunt face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

She sees him there, standing at the door's threshold, fingers curled tight over the frame of it, peeking at her from behind the wall.

He's crying, his eyes wet and bloodshot, tears slipping silently down his pale, gaunt face.

Lucille stares back at him for long seconds, at her little brother, standing there, weeping. Weeping for her, when she can find no such sentiment in her own heart for herself.

She wonders at him. Wonders at his innocence. At his goodness. 

Her brother is good. He is sweet, and kind, and thoughtful, and Lucille knows, at nine years old, that the world is going to eat him alive.

Knows that it already begins to.

For Thomas understands nothing, and he of such wilting and gentle disposition. 

Father hates him for it. Hates him for his fragility. And such hatred he expresses when he beats Thomas to senselessness. When he strikes her small, kind, sweet brother over and over and over upon the crown with hard, great fists, until Thomas lies broken at his feet, small and ruined and dead to the world.

One day, Lucille thinks, Father's cruelty will kill him. She thinks, too, that she cannot allow that to happen. She cannot.

Today, it is her who has tasted the cruelty of their parent's. Mother, now. 

They'd been caught outside the nursery, her and Thomas. It had been her idea, to play on the stairs, and Thomas, being as he was, had followed, despite his plain fear of being found out.

Still, he'd followed. 

Mother had heard them, despite their efforts to keep quiet.

The moment she'd heard the creak of floorboards, and the soft drag of Mother's gown against the wood, she'd sent Thomas straight away, back to the attic. He hadn't wanted to go. He never did. Never wanted her to suffer alone, never wanted her to endure Mother's wrath for him. But Lucille had ordered it, and again, being as he is, he'd obeyed, and scurried away just in time.

The canning had been savage, leaving Lucille bloody and broken on the steps, where still she lies now, hardly able to move.

And there her brother stands, looking at her, crying deeply, swallowing down his sobs, lest he draw Mother's attention again.

Lucille stares back, and she thinks not for the first time in her young life how he is all she has. This little boy, this fragile child who understands so little of the world despite everyday being so mercilessly exposed to it's hatred. This boy who loves her so truly.

He is all she has, and she thinks then, for the first time, how she can never let him go. How she must keep him with her, always.

For without him, she will have nothing... will be nothing...

She must keep him, no matter what.

And she thinks then of his innocence, thinks how easily he listens to her... how truly he trusts her, trusts her words, and a thought comes to her then... an awful thought, a cruel, awful, selfish thought...

But she can't lose him. Can't ever lose him...

“Thomas,” she calls to him then. “come here.”

He does, stepping out from the door's frame, coming nearer. Halfway to her, he stops, hesitating, wiping clumsily at his eyes with the heels of his palms. She sees him swallow thickly, and again, hiccuping on his choked down sobs.

“Come here Thomas.” She tells him again, voice a little firmer, and he starts towards her again, his steps slow and fearful. 

She manages with difficulty to push herself up to sitting, her back torn to shreds as it is, the pain nearly blinding in its intensity.

When at last he reaches her, he loses control of his composure, crumpling atop the landing beside her, small hands reaching for her, fingers burying in her rumpled and torn dress.

“I'm sorry.” He chokes out, voice thick and heavy with his tears. “I'm sorry Lucille!”

She holds him back, pulling him to her chest and kissing the crown of his head, hushing him gently, rocking him slowly. 

He weeps against her, his tears soaking through the flimsy material of her gown as he begins to shake.

“I'm sorry.” He cries again, voice muffled where his face is pressed.

She doesn't say anything for long minutes, only continuing to rock him. Her arms squeeze tighter round him, tight enough to where she knows it must hurt, until he struggles in her hold, whining faintly.

“L-Lucille...?” he starts, confusion in his voice, but no fear. Never fear. Not for her.

“Thomas,” she at last breathes, and she's shocked at the coldness of her own tone. “Thomas, do you see what you've done?”

He starts, pulling back and looking up at her, the same confusion that had been in his voice now mirrored in his face, and now too there is fear, still not for her, but, she knows, for what she's said.

“You should be sorry.” She goes on, voice still as cold, still as without emotion, staring him in his eyes. “You wanted to play out here, on the stairs. You made too much noise and Mother caught us. It's your fault I got beaten today.”

It makes her feel a slight hesitation when she sees Thomas' confusion bloom into naked panic, his face seeming to crumple before her, his eyes filling with fresh tears. Only... the look too fills her with a kind of odd thrill, to see how easily she's managed to break him so fully apart.

“I...” he starts, voice wavering and reed thin. “I didn't, th-though... I didn't want... I didn't mean...”

“You wanted to play out here, remember Thomas?” She pushes on, relentless. “I agreed, because I wanted you to be happy. But it was your idea, and then you made too much noise.”

“B-but I... I thought... I thought...” he stammers, and she sees the doubt in his eyes, sees how he already believes her, already is questioning his own memory.

“It's alright.” She tells him softly, bending down and kissing his cheek. “It's alright, because you're sorry, and I forgive you. But you have to promise me Thomas... you have to promise me you'll always stay. You'll always stay with me, no matter what. Show me you really love me, that you're really sorry.”

“I will!” Thomas cries, voice urgent and desperate. “I won't leave you Lucille, I promise! Not ever! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! You have to believe me!”

Lucille smiles at him then, stroking his black, curly hair back off his forehead, soothing and gentle.

“I do.” She tells him. “I do.”


	2. Part 2

The world tilts on its axis as he stands there, stands back, watching his sister straighten from where she'd been bent over Enola. The smile on Lucille's face, and Enola... unmoving, her eyes open and vacant and dead. Staring ahead at nothing, nothing, nothing...

Thomas feels sick... the world spinning and spinning and it won't stop.

He barely manages to catch himself on the entry's frame, holding himself there as he turns his face away, eyes stinging painfully, tears threatening, and he knows he has to force them down. Knows he can't let Lucille see.

She's already seen too much.

Her cool voice floats across the room.

“She's dead.” She says, and Thomas nearly collapses.

Enola... good Enola. She'd been... she'd been so strong. So intelligent and worldly and...

Thomas had thought... oh, so stupidly he'd thought this wouldn't happen. Thought somehow she'd live... Knowing all the while she was dying, knowing she slowly was being poisoned to death... somehow he'd fooled himself into thinking it wasn't so...

He and his naive, childish mind... He'd thought... because it had taken longer... this time... it had taken longer for her to get sick, to...

“Thomas,” Lucille says. “come here.”

He hesitates, still clinging to the entry's frame, not wanting... he doesn't want to see, doesn't want to look at her... at his wife.

“Thomas.” Lucille's voice snaps, hard, and he starts, forcing himself forward, knowing better than to try his sister's patience like that.

He keeps his face turned to the floor. His legs feel like brittle twigs beneath him, ready to crumble, the room still seeming to spin.

He isn't sure even how he makes it across the space without falling, only knows he's made it when he feels Lucille's powerful hands grip hold his arms and tug him forward the rest of the way.

He stumbles, and his sister presses her palm against his chest, righting him again.

He can't look... he doesn't...

“Look at her Thomas.” Lucille says.

He closes his eyes, hands curling into the material of his trousers. Nausea builds in his stomach, crawling up into his throat. He can't...

“Look at her Thomas.” Lucille says again, voice heavy with warning, and he opens his eyes, turning his face towards the sightless, dead woman seated before him, her form shriveled and broken. His heart pounds viciously, painfully against his ribs, and he thinks how much he hates himself.

Lucille is watching him, watching his face, and it is all he can do to keep his eyes from spilling over, to keep from gasping out in broken breath.

He can feel her disappointment... her anger...

“I keep telling you not to become attached.” She tells him flatly then. “I keep telling you Thomas, you foolish boy. You let yourself grow too close to this one, and that ridiculous mutt of hers, and now look. You grow upset over nothing. She was nothing. A means to an end.”

“She was... she was kind...” Thomas says weakly, voice hardly a whisper.

The slap is sudden, shocking in its strength.

Thomas stumbles back from it, his throat closing up, tears springing to his eyes, welling, threatening to fall.

It isn't the first time Lucille has hit him. 

Somehow, it never becomes any less shocking to him when she does.

She grabs hold his jaw, forcing his face towards hers.

“You didn't love her.” She says to him. “She meant nothing to you.”

He can't speak, his voice gone to him. He tries to turn away, but she doesn't let him, holding him fast.

“You didn't love her Thomas.” She says again, and he knows what she's asking.

“I... I didn't love her.” He stammers out, voice thin.

“You love only me.” She says, hand round his jaw gripping tighter.

“I l-love only you. Only you Lucille.” He answers, and what a coward he is. What a hideous coward.

Lucille stares back at him for long moments, eyes sharp and searching, studying, and he can barely manage to keep his own gaze upon her. He wants to look away... wants to run, run, run from here. From everything...

His sister frowns deeply, anger washing into disgust, before she at last shoves him back by his face.

“Get rid of that dog.” She tells him, before turning towards Enola, beginning to pull her body from the chair. Lucille's hands are rough and unkind where they touch the woman, and Thomas wants to tell her to stop, to not be so hard with her, so disrespectful. But he knows better, and so he says nothing at all.

When he fails to move, Lucille turns, glaring back at him with furious eyes.

It is enough to make him stammer out an apology, enough to make him turn and flee the room.

The dog... She'd told him to get rid of the dog. But he can't... not now. Not right now. He doesn't know where the animal's gone anyway. He was always with Enola... always by her side. 

Instead he hurries up the stairs, nearly losing his balance, nearly collapsing to his knees as he scrambles desperately for his workshop. He's breaking apart. Falling apart...

He can't... he can't...

Once there, he falls past the threshold, into the room, stumbling forward clumsily. 

And now he does lose his feet, hands shooting out as he trips forward, grasping at what he can for purchase.

He only manages to grab hold a protruding tray along his workbench, filled with various carving tools.

The thing comes crashing to the ground with him, the noise of the scattering tools cacophonous, deafening as it fills the space, and Thomas spares a thought of dread that his sister will hear it, even as he presses his hands across his mouth to muffle back the scream.

And he can't hold it in anymore, can't stop it as the tears he's been struggling against at last fill his eyes and slip, free down his face.

His scream chokes in his throat as he shoves it back, sliding into a broken sob, and then another, and he begins then to weep in earnest, listing to the side, crumpling along the side of his workbench.

He presses his face against it, squeezing his lids closed, his breathes coming sharp and fast and shallow.

He has to stop he thinks, even as a ragged gasp wheezes past his hands, his frame shuddering violently. He has to stop before Lucille realizes something, before she comes and finds him. 

She'll be angry if she finds him like this... she'll be upset... unhappy.

He doesn't want her to be unhappy. Can't allow it. She's done... done so much for him, sacrificed everything for him. He mustn’t betray her this way.

He mustn’t... he mustn’t...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Again, huge thanks to everyone who's read and/or reviewed! You're so appreciated! Obviously, this story is going to jump around in the timeline. I hope that's okay.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hey guys, so, just a warning for this chapter containing both physical abuse against a child, underage sexual content between two minors, and elements of dub/non-con.

Father beats Thomas that night.

Beats him hard, until Thomas, frail, fragile Thomas, at last loses consciousness, and Lucille can only stand there and watch, helpless and furious and terrified.

She hadn't been able to stop him, though she'd tried. God, had she tried, culminating at last in her physically grabbing hold Father's leg, trying bodily to pull him from her young brother.

All she'd gotten for her troubles was being tossed aside like some ragged child's doll, landing hard against her shoulder, pain ratcheting through her in overwhelming waves.

And Father had simply resumed as though no interruption had occurred at all, hitting Thomas, over and over, until his cries had died down to nothing. Until he'd fallen very silent, and Father had straightened, glaring with contempt at the unmoving form of his son, racking his giant, meat hook hands back through his hair, and declaring, as he always did, “Now you are dead, and my disappointment is ended.”

Striding past her without a single glance, Lucille then waits until the brute of a man is gone from the room, before turning back towards her brother and running for him, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs, blood rushing like the ocean in her ears.

Already she has tears streaming from her eyes. 

When for herself she can never find tears, for her brother, she cries so easily.

“Thomas,” she sobs, falling to her knees at his side, hands reaching out and grasping at his torn and soiled shirt, pulling him over from his side, onto his back. His face is pale and bruised deeply round both eyes, across the bridge of his nose, his lip red with blood, likely from cuts inside his mouth, his chest rising and falling in a shallow, weak pattern.

“Thomas, wake up.” She weeps, pulling him up, holding his tiny frame against her. “Wake up, please.”

But he doesn't stir. 

Her brother has always been of such fragile constitution, always so much more easily hurt than herself. He cant take these beatings. Not like she can.

Father is going to kill him one day. He's going to kill Thomas, and then she'll be alone.

She can't though! She can't be alone! She can't! She can't!

“Thomas, oh please,” she sobs once more, before finally gathering him into her arms and lifting him up, standing with him. He seems to weigh nothing to her, light as air, and all she can think then is of Father thrashing him again and again, crushing his giant fists over Thomas' head, and Thomas, so small, so helpless...

Rage turns her sight red, and she sets her jaw, struggling to tamp it down. She has to get her brother back to the nursery. Has to help him...

//

It's nearly an hour before Thomas regains consciousness, and in that time, Lucille has worked herself into a near frenzy, torn between frantic pacing and sitting at his side, petting his face and hair, grasping his hand tightly and singing softly to him, hoping madly it will somehow rouse him.

When eventually she sees his eyes begin to flutter, she grips his hand only tighter, watching him intently, calling to him with urgency.

“Thomas.” She starts, voice thick with tears, wavering badly. “Thomas!”

His only response is a soft groan.

She knows the moment he regains awareness, as she watches his face crumple, the pain of Father's beating hitting him full. Tears spring immediately to his eyes, and he curls in on himself, a broken whimper slipping past his lips, sliding an instant later into choked sobs.

“Thomas, Thomas...” Lucille cries with him, gathering him up and kissing softly against his temple. “It's alright.” She promises. “It'll be alright.”

He clings desperately to her, hands bunching in the material of her dress, his body trembling violently as he struggles to keep his sobs quiet.

“Shh, Thomas. Shh...” she rocks him gently, beginning again to sing to him.

“I-it hurts L-Lucille... it h-hurts...” he moans weakly, and she cups the back of his head, his soft curls tight against her palm.

“I know.” She says, massaging her fingers against his scalp. “I know.”

He can't take this. Thomas can't take this, can't bear the beatings and thrashings like she can. Oh her brother, her poor, sweet brother.

She has to protect him. She has to protect him always.

For a long time, they sit like that, until finally Thomas' tears begin to subside, only a soft, pitiful whimpering left of his sobs, and without speaking, Lucille again picks him up and carries him to the galvanized tub they use to bathe.

Placing him gently down, she kneels to look him in the eye.

“Wait here while I go fetch water to fill it. Yes?” 

He nods, wiping at his red, puffy eyes. He's still shaking, both from cold and pain, she suspects, and she reaches out, rubbing up and down his arms roughly to give him some warmth.

“I'll be back soon.” She promises, before reluctantly leaving his side.

//

He is a beautiful child, her brother, her Thomas, she thinks, as she smooths the washcloth gently over his bare and bony shoulders. Narrow for now, but she can already tell to look at him that, when he grows up (if he grows up, and she stamps the thought quickly from her mind), he will have broad ones, a tall and powerful frame to go with it. 

For now, he is small and fragile and weak, his skin alabaster to match his raven black hair and shocking blue eyes. His beautiful, thin lips a perfect slash of pink against his white face.

He relaxes under her care, shoulders slumping, sinking into the water as she drags the clothe across his shoulders again, and then down his back.

The bruising is awful already, deep blacks and blues and reds where the blood vessels have broken, marring almost the entire expanse of his body, and he can't help the way he flinches and whimpers when she passes over some of the uglier contusions. 

She shushes him then, leaning down and kissing his temple, kissing his crown, singing their lullaby softly to sooth him, and it helps to quiet him down.

“Brave boy.” She says kindly, moving the washcloth around, across his small chest, and down, slipping it beneath the water, to his stomach.

It fascinates her, how differently shaped they are.

She is only twelve, but already she's begun to form breasts, like their mother, and like Theresa, before she'd been let go...

Though the rest of her remains lean and strong.

Thomas, by contrast, is still so soft, and might even be plump, if she and he were allowed more than the meager scraps of food they're given. As it is, his stomach sticks out like the underside of a bowel, his face round still with baby fat.

He's short too, though his limbs are strangely long, and that's how she knows he's going to be tall. For now, he stands a good few inches shorter than her. She wishes, sometimes, he could remain so for always.

Her perfect little cherub brother.

“Up,” she orders him then, overcome suddenly with the desire to look upon him.

He obeys, as he always does, and she helps him by hooking her hands under the pits of his arms and lifting him to his feet, so that he is standing there in the tub and water, naked before her. 

He doesn't cover himself up shyly, isn't ashamed. They've seen each other bare like this a thousand times and more.

And there comes then an increasingly familiar stirring in the pit of Lucille's gut then, as her eyes rake over Thomas' boyish form. Lust, she knows, from the things she's read in Mother's books.

She wants to kiss him. Has dreamed of kissing him and... other things. Touching him. Him touching her. She's only just recently discovered she can touch herself and relieve some of the want.

But to have his hands on her there, oh... that would be wonderful, she thinks, as her gaze settles between her brother's legs.

She looks fixedly upon his small penis, shriveled and pink from the water, and she wonders, imagines what it would look like, swollen and big.

She swallows at the thought, distractedly continuing to wash Thomas' body, running the clothe over his slim hips, and down, to the inside of his thighs. He stands still, oblivious to her thoughts and secret desires, arms crossed over his shivering frame to ward off the cold.

He's so innocent, and somehow, the realization makes Lucille's wonton fantasies flare harder within her.

She wonders if she could make his penis look as it looks in the grotesque illustrations...

And very suddenly the desire is too much. 

She drops the cloth, and without fully realizing it, a moment later, she has Thomas' penis in her hand, pulling on it and stroking at it clumsily.

It feels strange. Soft and warm, almost silky.

Thomas starts, surprised, his large eyes wide and staring down at where she holds him. She glances up at him and sees his cheeks have turned red in embarrassment.

“Lu-Lucille?” He asks, voice tremulous and frightened, confused.

“Hush.” She tells him. “Let me do this.”

He falls silent, saying nothing more, though he's begun to shake pronouncedly, his expression twisted in seeming dismay.

“... Does it feel good?” She asks as she continues to fondle him, wondering if it feels for him like it does for her when she touches herself between her legs.

Her brother stutters out a shaky breathe, arms wrapping tighter round himself.

“... It f-feels funny.” He stammers, voice weak and thready, and Lucille smiles, knowing it's affecting him.

“And this?” She asks, rubbing her thumb in a delicate circle over the head of his penis, pressing down firmly with each stroke.

Thomas chokes out as gasp, and when she looks up at him, she sees his eyes are wet with tears.

It's almost enough to make her stop, but the desire in her gut is strong now, almost overwhelming. She feels dizzy with it.

“Come here.” She says, and she stands to her feet, picking him up under the arms and out of the water. “Here,” she tells him. “lay down here.”

She guides her little brother to his back upon the hardwood floor, and it makes her almost giddy how easily she manages it. He doesn't resist, doesn't protest. Just lays back like she tells him too, staring up at her with lost eyes.

“Open your legs, like this.” She goes on then, taking hold of his knees and spreading his legs open, as far as they'll go.

She can see his round little stomach rising and falling heavily, his breathing rapid. He's scared, but he isn't fighting. She smiles warmly at him, leaning down and stroking his hair back from his face, kissing his cheek softly.

“It's alright.” She tells him. “I won't hurt you. You know that.”

He swallows thickly and nods, eyes still thick with tears.

“This will feel good.” She tells him then. “I promise. Don't you want to feel good Thomas?”

“... I...” he starts uncertainly, voice shaking.

“It's alright.” She again promises, before lowering herself between his legs.

For a few moments she only studies him. Studies how differently formed he is than her. There's a fleshy sack right beneath his penis which she knows, again from Mother's books, is called the testicles. Behind that is the opening to his rectum, and she wonders if he's sensitive there like she is.

She can't control her curiosity, and in an instant, she's reaching for him there, pressing her fore and middle finger back behind his testicles, up against the space between his rectum and penis.

Thomas gasps, squirming, and she hushes him again as she begins to rub against the spot, firmly, aggressively.

“L-Luc-cille, I...” he chocks out, and she takes his penis into her other hand then, rubbing at the head of it with her thumb once more.

And it doesn't take long then. Doesn't take long before her brother's squirming and fidgeting dies away, his stuttering breathes sliding into bizarre, drawn out moans, his entire frame relaxing so much under her it's as if he's melted into a liquid nothing.

His small penis does indeed swell, though it still remains oddly small and pitiful in her hand. Not that it matters. She's got her eyes locked on Thomas' face, his own lids clamped shut, brow furrowed and his mouth hung open, slack jawed.

“L-L... L-Lucc-cille, i-it... it... o-ohh...” he whimpers, and then suddenly he stiffens, hard, every inch of him going ridged, and a moment later, a sticky white liquid sprays up from his penis, all over Lucille's hand.

Bringing it to her nose, she smells it, bitter and strong in her nostrils. Ejaculation, she recalls.

Looking down at her brother, she sees Thomas shuddering still, his chest heaving with desperate breathes, tears streaming from his still closed eyes.

The ache between Lucille's legs is powerful then. Almost maddening.

“Thomas,” she whispers, wiping the white gunk off along the floor, bending forward and kissing his now sweaty forehead.

He opens his eyes, looking up at her with so much trust, and she wants to hold him down. Wants to hold him down and make him hers. Make him do everything she tells him. Everything, everything...

“Let's try something else.” She says, reaching up beneath her own skirts, pulling away her undergarments.


	4. Chapter 4

He pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms round, pressing his face to their tops, hiding

Sinking down into the tubs water, lapping up, lukewarm around him. It never gets very warm. It never gets very warm anywhere in this place.

He can't stop crying, and he doesn't understand what's wrong with him. 

Enola... He can't stop thinking about her. Thinking about her sitting there, still and lifeless, Lucille bent over her, wiping the last remnants of tea from her colorless lips.

He'd gone away again, into the city. Like he always did, when he knew the end was near for them. He couldn't take it... couldn't stand to look upon them as their life whisked away from their bodies. Couldn't stand to see the intelligence in their eyes wink out...

He'd never... never felt right about it. About any of it. He'd never understood why. Why they had to do this... do it this way. He'd tried. Oh, he'd tried so much, tried so hard to see Lucille's reason. Even pretended... lied to her that he did, that he understood. Because it made her happy, it made her smile, and that was all that mattered. That Lucille was happy. Was safe.

She'd explained to him again and again that it was his fault, and he knew that. He knew. Because he was a failure. Because he wasn't smart enough, wasn't clever or worldly or experienced enough. Wasn't... wasn't man enough, like Father had used to tell him. He didn't... he couldn't think of any way other to raise capital for his machine. Nothing beyond throwing himself upon the mercy and greed of investors and hoping they would see in his work a fortune for themselves.

But even in that he was a failure. He could never convince, never make others see the soundness of his design, could never make them believe he could succeed. He supposes because... because, like Lucille, they could see he was a failure too. Could see he would never amount to anything.

He'd suggested he go out and find work, labor even, to try and save enough to complete his miner, but Lucille had made him understand the futility of that. That no matter how many positions he took on, it would never be enough. Not for the machine, not for the house, not for them. And besides which, he wasn't skilled in anything but toy making and wood carving, and no one had any use for a thing like that. 

She'd made him see too the shame it would bring them, beyond the shame they already suffered, that an aristocrat, a baronet, would find himself so reduced as to lower himself to menial labor.

He didn't want to hurt Lucille. Didn't want to bring her shame, or humiliation, or embarrassment. And so he'd forgotten it. Forgotten the stupid notion. He was stupid, he'd realized. He wasn't smart. Not like his sister.

And then she'd seen the way girls would flock to him, surround him and flirt with him. 

He hadn't known what to do with it, again, because he was stupid. He hadn't known how to talk to them, even what they wanted with him, truly. He was handsome, Lucille told him, that was why.

But he could only smile shyly at them and stammer over his words when they spoke to him. And they would giggle and bat their lashes, but after a while, they would lose interest, because he was nothing, and they could see.

Lucille though, she had known. She had known what to do. And she'd taught him. She'd shown him how to act, how to talk, how to be for them, and soon, they weren't losing interest anymore. Soon, they wanted to stay with him, and be with him, and marry him.

But it was only a specific sort... a specific sort they could return interest in, Lucille had explained, though Thomas had found himself attracted to many of the girls. 

They had to be wealthy. That was the fist requirement. The most important. After that, it was preferable they had little to no family. No one who would really come looking for them. Thomas hadn't understood this rule at first. But then Lucille had explained. She'd explained, and Thomas had been horrified. He'd been frightened.

But Lucille had told him it was alright, that she would take care of everything, that they would be safe, and finally have enough money for him to begin building his machine, enough money to repair the house and reclaim their own wealth and good name.

And Thomas had believed her. He'd agreed. To be able to succeed in something, to be able then to support Lucille, keep her safe and happy... That had been enough. More than enough. He'd let her choose the women, because she was smarter, she knew better, and he would behave with them as she'd shown him, and they would fall in love with him, and they would marry.

For them he'd always felt a kind of fondness. He liked them. The first two... he'd liked them very much.

Not love. Never love. He only... only loved Lucille... could only love Lucille. That was the pact. That was the rule. And he couldn't betray her ever. Not ever. Not after everything she'd done for him.

When the first had died, he... he'd been so confused. Stupidly confused. It had been so horrible. So slow and painful for her. He remembers his terrified and bewildered reaction when she'd started spitting up blood. Remembers running to Lucille and telling her about it, frantic and worried. Remembers how she'd only laughed, holding his face and explaining to him as she would an ignorant child that it was what was supposed to happen. That it was alright.

Thomas doesn't know why he hadn't realized that. Doesn't know why he'd thought it would be anything different. When Lucille had told him they would be killing the wives off, he... somehow he'd... imagined it would be quiet... peaceful even. Lucille had said it would be a mercy even, for them. These lonely, unwanted women, who were just waiting to die...

That had seemed true, to him. At first it had seemed... the first girl had been so old, after all. She hadn't long to live anyway, and she was so sad...

And the second, she... she had been a cripple. No man would want her. Lucille had explained that. Though Thomas had found her quite pretty. Not that he'd dared to say such a thing to Lucille. He hadn't been able to bear watching her go the way of his first wife, and so, coward that he was, he'd fled, and when he'd come back, she'd been gone, and Thomas, though he'd kept thinking of the poor, sweet girl in the back of his mind throughout the whole day and night, for many months, had too been able to justify it to himself. Had convinced himself that it was better for her that way. That her suffering had ended, and that, as Lucille said, they'd done her a mercy.

Eventually, he'd been able to lose himself in the work of his machine, with the fresh income providing more opportunities to further the design and building. He'd nearly been able to put her from his thoughts completely... nearly...

And then had come Enola. Oh, sweet, kind, beautiful Enola...

Thomas had felt with her something new. Something different. She'd been so smart, so engaging and interested in him and his own work. She'd even... even told him she thought he was brilliant, which Thomas of course had known was just her being kind... being nice... still, it had felt good, to hear her say it. 

He'd found himself able to talk to her for hours at a time, truly talk, sincerely, to so great an extent that, often, he had lost track of the time, and would find the mornings bleeding into afternoons, into evenings.

Lucille hadn't liked that. She'd grown upset... so upset. And her unhappiness had made her begin to act rashly, recklessly even, calling him more and more often to her room, not simply during the nights, but in the light of day too, when Enola could easily have discovered them...

Thomas had tried dissuading her, tried calming her, but that had only seemed to make her more desperate... seemed only to make her angry. 

He'd stopped arguing when, one evening, after he'd stupidly spent the majority of the day with Enola, she'd called him to her room. He'd expected chastising, of course, and had been ready to apologize. He was sorry. He was always so sorry. He never meant to hurt his sister, God, he never meant to... If only he weren't such a selfish fool...

But she hadn't yelled at him that time. She hadn't... she'd... 

Thinking about it now makes Thomas' face heat with shame, and he presses it harder against the tops of his knees.

She'd hit him. She'd hit him so hard. She'd hit him with her fist. He hadn't been expecting it. And it had felt so much like... so much like when Father had hit him and... 

He'd crumpled, he remembers. He'd fallen on the floor and raised his arms over his head, and began blubbering, begging like a pathetic child for her to stop. It had only made her angrier, and she'd hit him again and again. Not that hard. Just her open palm against the crown of his head. But he'd been so frightened, had begun crying, because she wouldn't stop, and he was so confused... so lost...

And then afterward, she'd... when finally she'd stopped, and he hadn't even realized it... hadn't realized until she picked him up off the floor and led him back to her bed, whispering apologies and kind, gentle words against his ear, wiping the tears from his face with her fingers... And she'd sung to him, and touched him... 

He'd been so confused, stammering out his own apologies, and she had forgiven him, thank God... thank God... and she'd touched him and sang to him and told him it was alright. 

It hadn't felt alright.

He'd been so worried, so sure he'd mis-stepped in a way unforgivable... And Lucille's hand on him, stroking him over and over, and it hadn't felt right. He remembers thinking that. Remembers wishing it could have been... that instead it could have been... And then he'd started crying harder, and Lucille's hand had become more insistent, her voice soft in his ear as she sang, until the pleasure had at last, mercifully, overwhelmed his thoughts, and he'd lost himself to it... giving in... giving in.

A month later, and Enola is dead, and again, Thomas can't stop crying.

He'd cared for her so much, he realizes. He'd cared for her... he'd lo... no... no!

He shakes his head of the thought. That isn't right. That isn't true. He hadn't love her. He only loved Lucille... only Lucille... 

Only he doesn't understand this horrible emptiness he feels now. Doesn't understand why it hurts so much...

He turns his face, feeling the wet of tears trickle down his cheeks, and he wipes at them clumsily, the sound of water shifting around him.

Lucille had told him to get rid of Enola's dog. That meant he was supposed to kill him, Thomas knows, but he hadn't... he hadn't been able to do that... the thought of it alone had made him feel shaky and sick, his stomach churning. He'd put the poor thing outside then. The harsh landscape would take care of it. The realization makes his eyes flood suddenly with more tears, and again, he wipes at them.

And then he freezes, hearing the shift and whir of the elevator, and panic blooms heavy inside his chest.

Reaching down into the water, he cups the cooling liquid into his hands, bending forward and splashing it over his face, and again, and again.

Lucille can't see he's been crying... she can't know... 

It would make her so unhappy...

His hands shake with the effort as he makes out then the drag of his sister's gown along the wooden floorboards, and he has only enough time to splash his face once more before she hears him call out his name.

“Thomas.” She says, and he starts, flinching in the water, splashing some of it over the edges of the tub, onto the floor.

If Lucille notices, she says nothing, simply moving into the room, towards him.

Trying desperately to even his breathing, praying his eyes no longer show signs of his weeping, he turns towards her, looking up at her as she draws nearer.

“You've been in here a long while.” She says lightly, seating herself along the step.

“I... I have?” He asks dumbly, and it's a struggle not to look away from her, guilt eating him from the inside as she stares back at him with intent, knowing eyes.

Oh God, he thinks, she knows. She must know. She must be able to see.

But again, she says nothing.

And then she reaches out, and Thomas nearly flinches back, thinking she's going to hit him, barely keeping himself still as her hand cups his cheek.

“You look tired.” She tells him, and he can only blink, swallowing thickly. Her face twists in sadness. “Oh, my poor brother. You've been working so hard lately.”

She leans over, pressing her lips against his forehead, and he feels his eyes slip closed, relief flooding through him.

She isn't angry then. She isn't upset.

“I'm sorry.” He says, and he means it. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to w-worry you.”

“It's alright.” She tells him. “Here, let me wash you.”

It feels good, the drag and pull of the washcloth over his skin, and he lets himself relax with the sensation, slumping slightly forward as his sister tends to him.

Minutes pass in silence but for the sound of splashing water and their light breathes, and Thomas feels almost overwhelmingly grateful then that Lucille is here. He feels safe with her. Tears sting at the backs of his eyes, the emotion grows so strong, and he swallows them back, keeping his lids clamped tightly.

“Did you get rid of that mutt?” Her voice breaks abruptly through the silence, and Thomas sucks in a sharp breathe, not expecting the question. 

Lucille notices, and her hand stops, holding the washcloth against his chest.

“Thomas...” she presses when he fails to answer, and he gives a jerky, weak nod.

“Good.” She says, resuming her motion.

Another, few minutes pass, and then she speaks again.

“You needn't worry about Enola. I've taken care of the body.” She says, her voice flat and hard.

Too late, Thomas stiffens at the mention of her, and Lucille sees it. Quick as a snake, her hand shoots up and takes hard hold of his jaw, sharp nails digging into his flesh, holding him viciously tight.

“You're still thinking of her.” She accuses, and Thomas knows there's no point in lying. 

“I'm sorr...” he begins again to apologize, and her grip along his jaw closes tighter still. Tight enough to hurt, and Thomas' eyes skirt away from his sister.

“Do you want to destroy us Thomas?” She asks bluntly, and shock fills him quick, his gaze sliding back to her, eyes wide and scared.

“N-no.” He answers. “No, I... I don't...”

“You want to destroy all we've worked for.” She talks over him. Not a question. An accusation. “None of this matters to you. What I've sacrificed doesn't matter to you!”

Thomas can feel the backs of his eyes stinging again, his throat closing up.

“No!” He says, voice wavering, threatening to break. “No, Lucille, I... that isn't...”

“Do you want me gone Thomas?” She asks, and he nearly sobs with the question, shaking his head, tears welling thick in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks.

“No!” He chokes, terrified. “No!”

“Because that is what will happen if you continue like this. If you continue questioning me. They'll come for me Thomas. Like they did when I killed Mother. They'll come for me and lock me away, and you'll never see me again. They'll put me in that hellish pit again, and you... they'll hang you Thomas. They'll kill you, and I'll have nothing. Nothing but their vile hands on me, touching me, raping me.”

“No, Lucille, n-no... no...” Thomas cries, voice breaking down as finally it becomes too much. He falls forward, arms reaching out towards her, and Lucille wraps him tight in her own embrace, shushing him gently, her fingers smoothing through his hair, palm against the back of his head, holding his face to her shoulder.

“Shh, shh...” she goes on. “it's alright baby brother. Don't cry. Don't cry. But you must listen to me, yes? You must do as I say.”

He nods, desperate, his wet hands clinging to her dress, soaking through the material. 

“I would never hurt you Thomas.” She whispers to him, and again he nods. He knows. He knows. “And so you must never hurt me.”

Again, he nods.

Never. Never, never, never. He never wants to hurt Lucille. He never wants to hurt her. He loves her. He loves her so much.

“Please,” he weeps, and she kisses his crown, hushing him softly.

Only when he hears her soft voice, singing sweetly in his ear, does he begin to calm again.


	5. Part 5

Lucille watches from the attic window, watching as Father comes cresting on horseback over the hill of their estate, a pair of dead grouse heads sticking out of the saddlebag's. Her eyes linger and smolder upon his hulking, tall form only a moment, before they move past, looking behind, searching for the sight of her brother. He wouldn't have a horse of his own. Too small yet for that. Wouldn't have a pony either, Father and Mother not willing to spare the funds for such a thing.

He'd be made to walk, as he always was when Father forced him to attend him on his hunting expeditions, lagging and staggering behind, her brother's frame too small and weak to ever hope of keeping pace with a full grown and powerful animal.

Thomas never wanted to go, terrified as he was of Father, fearing the man's disappointment as much as he did his temper.

It would take some minutes for her brother to appear behind Father then. Lucille knew that. It always did.

Still, she could feel her heart beat painfully in her chest, worry and fear niggling relentlessly at her imagination as the seconds passed by and she saw no sign of him.

Seconds stretching into minutes... five... ten... 

And she knew then something was wrong. Knew with dreadful certainty Thomas wasn't there... wasn't with Father.

Her terror then was almost overwhelming, as Father reached the house and disappeared from her view, into the stables.

Thomas wasn't with him... he wasn't there, and she knew, she knew something awful had happened. Something unspeakable.

Oh... oh God, she should have killed the bastard. She should have acted when she'd had the chance. Acted before he could hurt Thomas any more. Oh God...

And terror turns then to rage, her vision red with it as she turns from the window and bursts out from the nursery, not thinking, not caring if she's seen, if she's beaten for it.

Rushing down the stairs, grabbing hold the entrance handle and tugging with all her strength to pull it wide, she runs out into the frigid, late-autumn air, barely feeling the cold through her flimsy gown as she dashes round the house, towards the back and stables.

She hears Father's voice before she reaches them, talking to one of the stable boys.

“Damned idiot child wandered off when I wasn't looking.” He's saying, voice filled with the same disgust and malice it always did when he spoke about Thomas. “I couldn't find him. Eh, but what matter is it? The boy is a fool. I knew he'd get himself killed one day, with how weak and sickly he is. I doubt if he'll survive the night out there.”

“B-but Sir,” the stable boy starts, voice shaking and distraught. “sh-shouldn't we s-send a search par'y, at least?”

“Do what you like!” James snaps, irritated. “I haven't time to think on it now. The whelp knew to stay with me. It's his own damned fault.”

And then Father turns, and starts out of the stable. 

Lucille throws herself at him, her fury and horror robbing her of any fear. 

The giant man startles at the attack, stumbling back as she latches hold round his leg, pounding at him with her small fists.

“You bastard!” She cries, voice breaking with her sudden tears. “You bastard!”

His shock lasts only a moment, her blows utterly ineffective against him, and in an instant, he has hold of her wrists, his grip crushingly strong, threatening to snap the delicate bones within as he stills her movements.

“You stupid bitch!” He hisses, voice low with rage, and Lucille feels her fear come rushing back like a tidal wave. “Don't you fucking touch me!”

She isn't even sure what it is that happens after that.

Knows only that there is pain. Overwhelming pain, agony ratcheting through her skull and down her spine, an explosion of white behind her eyes. 

The next thing she knows, she's on the ground, blinking up dazedly at the steel gray sky, the world spinning in circles around her.

She lays there for long minutes, wondering, terror filled, if Father will beat her. But she realizes, after a while at last, that he isn't even there anymore. That he's simply left her there, on the ground. Gone back to the house. Gone to tell Mother she's left the nursery...

Her stomach churns at the prospect, wretched fear slipping into frozen resignation. There's no point going back to the nursery. Mother will cane her either way.

It's when she feels the soft cold of snowflake's touching down on her cheeks, resting weightless against her lashes, that she begins to cry.

//

Thomas bites down hard along the ridge of his hand, trying desperately to keep himself from crying.

The sun is beginning to sink in the sky, and he knows soon it will be dark, the air growing colder with each hour passed, snow slowly beginning to descend from the darkening clouds.

He's already so cold, and his stomach burns with hunger.

Father had left him. He'd... he'd left him, chasing after a flock of grouse. Thomas had tried to keep up. Had run after him, for as long and hard as he could. But he hadn't been able to, Father's long, strong legs carrying him well out of Thomas' sight, and quickly, and soon the boy had found himself lost, hopelessly turned around from where he'd started.

He'd tried calling to Father, hoping, praying the man would hear him and come. Even... even if he got a beating for getting lost, he'd rather that than this. 

He didn't know where he was, turning in circles, trying frantically to recognize something, anything to help him remember which way was back to the horse. But everything had looked the same, and Father hadn't heard him, hadn't come.

After a time, Thomas had simply chosen a direction and begun walking in it, a decision he now realizes had been a mistake. 

He's only become more lost, more confused, and it's been hours since he last saw Father. He knows, in likelihood, that he's left back for Allerdale already.

Left him here alone, lost in the woods.

The realization makes panic bloom oppressively in the pit of his stomach, choking him with fear. He doesn't know how to survive out here, in the woods. He doesn't know how to do anything. He'll... he'll die for sure. He'll die, and he'll never see... never see Lucille again, and then she'll be all alone. All alone with Mother and Father...

It's enough to set him off running again, blindly, frenzied, running until his lungs and legs burn and he doesn't feel like he can breathe, branches and brush whipping him across the face as he crashes heedlessly forward, cutting and scrapping him to pieces. Until, at last, exhausted, he trips over a jutting tree root, stumbling and crashing to the leaf-ridden ground, too late throwing out his hands to catch himself, his face impacting hard against the earth.

For long minutes, he can only lay there, the wind knocked clear out of him, gasping for breathe, wheezing.

When finally he's able to push himself up, dragging his knees against his chest, he finds himself shaking, shivering uncontrollably as the air around him grows colder still, seeping through his meager hunting coat and thin trousers, seeping past his skin, seemingly into his very bones. He aches all over, his joints stiff and sore, his throat dry with thirst and fingers and toes beginning to numb.

And he can't help it anymore. Can't stop it as tears well thick in his eyes, spilling fast down his reddened, stinging cheeks.

In moments, he's sobbing.

He doesn't know what to do, and he wants his sister. He wants Lucille.

She would know. She would know what to do. How to make it right.

“Lu-Lu... Luc-cille...” he cries weakly, burying his face against his knees.

//

Three days later, they bring Thomas home.

Lucille watches from the top of the stairs, hidden behind the banister, her hands wrapped white-knuckled round the wood.

Her brother is unconscious as he's carried into the house by one of the stable-hands, his small frame limp and unresponsive in the man's arms, his skin deathly pale and sweat coated.

His clothes are torn and soiled, his riding coat, which Lucille had seen him leave wearing, gone, his shirt ripped apart, revealing scrapped and bruised skin underneath, and so too his trousers. 

His left leg, she can see, even from where she sits, is mangled, the ankle twisted and swollen.

Hot, horrified tears spring immediately to her eyes, her hands gripping tighter round the banister as her heart hammers sickeningly in her chest.

No, she thinks desperately. No, no, no...

“What's this?!” Mother's voice snaps out, filling the hall, thick, as always, with anger and disgust. Lucille finds herself shrinking back at the sound of it. “What's going on here?”

“Your son, ma'am.” One of the men begins to explain, eyes darting between the woman and Thomas, nervous, as they always are round James and Beatrice. “W-we found him, out d-deep in the woods. He... h-he's in a real bad way ma'am. Real sick. He'll need to s-see a doctor right quick.”

Mother glares coldly at the man a moment before her gaze slips to Thomas, studying him with a dispassionate, almost bored eye.

“The nuisance got himself lost out there in the woods. Why should we pay the extra expense of a doctor?” She sneers, and Lucille feels her heart hammers harder still, a wave of dizziness washing through, so powerful, that for a moment, she thinks she's going to pass out.

“But ma'am, he... he's running a h-high fever, and his ankle's b-broken for sure. Y-you know it's been snowin' hard the last few days, and he's been s-stuck out there in that cold the whole time. He's real sick. Burnin' up. You'll s-see if ya touch em'.”

The man holding Thomas steps nearer to Mother, and Mother visibly recoils, her face twisting in disdain.

“Don't bring the wretch near me!” She hisses. The man freezes, uncertain and confused.

“B-but ma'am...” he stammers again.

“You'll need to speak with his father.” Mother cuts him off, already turning away, uncaring. “It isn't my decision to make.”

//

Thomas is deathly ill. 

For days now, he's been bedridden, slipping in and out of consciousness, his waking states fitful and full of agony, his slumber equally so, fever refusing to break.

That first day they'd found him and brought him back, Father had been gone, into town again, and the workers that had found Thomas then had taken the opportunity to run and fetch a physician, bringing the man to the house to see him.

The doctor had had just enough time to fix and set her brother's broken ankle, and to diagnose him with phenomena, before Father had returned, and in a rage, chased the doctor from the house, before bodily carrying Thomas back up to the nursery and dumping him onto the floor, slamming the door behind him as he'd left.

He hadn't cared, hadn't cared at all that his son might... very likely would, die.

Lucille's rage and hate would have been enough for her to go after Father then and hack his bloody head off with the meat cleaver she'd seen used to butcher their chickens. She'd wanted to. Oh, how she'd wanted to. And she would. Soon she would.

But Thomas had been lying there, sweaty and moaning and shivering uncontrollably. Her little brother, who had no one... no one but her, and she'd known she had to tend to him before all else. Known it was serious.

She'd managed to steal away to the library a few days earlier, when Mother and Father had again gone into town, and find books which detailed how to manage and care for those suffering from pneumonia. That, along with her experience tending to Mother, had aided her in keeping her brother alive. Though still his fever refused to break, and she feared with nauseating dread the absolute worst.

Her hand round his now squeezes tightly, even as she resumes her care, dabbing gently at his forehead with a cool washcloth.

He's lying on their makeshift cot in the drafty, cold attic, unconscious and naked, shivering, sweat forming along his feverish skin. She has cold clothes balled and stuffed into his armpits, one as well covering his crotch, even as she prays fervently for him to improve.

Pneumonia was deadly, most especially to the young and the old. And Thomas was so very young. Only just ten. He could die. He could. She doesn't know what she would do if he did. Doesn't know...

But no, that couldn't happen. It couldn't. She wouldn't allow it. Thomas had promised her, he'd promised he would never leave her. Never...

She's shaken from her thought's by a soft moan, and snapping her gaze back down, she sees her brother's lids fluttering as he begins to stir into wakefulness. 

Her hand round his squeezes tighter, pushing the washcloth back, his sweat drenched black curls off his forehead as at last his eyes open, and he stares up at her with glassy, dazed eyes, searching.

“Lu-Lucille?” He calls, his voice weak, trembling with pain and exhaustion.

“I'm here Thomas.” She says, leaning over him so he can find her. “I'm right here.”

 

For long seconds, his gaze remains lost, as though he doesn't recognize her, and terror ripples through her like a wave. But then his confusion slips away, and he stares up at her with clear, frightened eyes.

“Lucille...” he says again, and suddenly his eyes fill with tears, slipping quickly down his temples, into his hair.

“It's alright.” She tells him, feeling her own eyes sting, her face lining in pain. “It's alright Thomas.”

He chokes out a thin sob, his small frame shaking more pronouncedly.

“I d-don't... don't feel good.” He stammers.

“I know.” She tells him.

She can't stand this. She can't. The way he looks up at her with such desperate, frightened eyes, like he's begging her to help him, please, please, please... And she can't. She can't.

And suddenly then she wants to hit him. Wants to slap his face for making her feel this, for making her so afraid and helpless too. Wants to grab his head and crack it over and over against the floor. Wants to... wants to...

“Lucille?” Thomas' frail voice calls to her again, and her mind clears. She stares down at him, and his face crumples.

“I'm s-sorry.” He cries. “I'm sorry Lucille.”

She reaches up, curling her fingers into his hair, bending down and pressing her lips to his hot skin.

“It's alright Thomas.” She whispers to him, her fingers tightening where they remain.


	6. Chapter 6

“Where are you going?”

Thomas freezes midway through putting his coat on, a wave of abrupt fear turning his extremities at once numb and tingling, setting his heart hammering painfully inside his chest.

He doesn't understand why the sound of his sisters voice should stir such feelings within him. Should make him feel such dread. Lucille loves him. She takes care of him, and always has. Has kept him safe when he was too weak to do so himself.

He has no reason to fear her, he knows that.

Still, his mouth is suddenly dry and trepidation seems to fill his lungs as he turns slowly, his eyes landing upon her form, standing there in the doorway, looking back at him with naked disapproval. 

It takes him a long moment to find his voice, and he feels like a misbehaving child, standing there beneath her hard gaze.

“... I... I thought I might go for a ride.” He tells her, trying with effort to keep his voice steady. “The fresh air might do me some good.”

She regards him with suspicion, and it takes all his strength to keep from looking away, to keep from blurting out to her the truth, that he needs to get away, from this house, from the stench of death and decay and rot... From her.

He can't stop thinking about the boy... Their boy... their son.

Lucille had... she'd...

She'd claimed the child had died on his own. That weakness and deformity had claimed his life, and Thomas had believed her. Devastated and lost, he'd believed her, because Lucille had loved the boy too. He knew that. He knew that even still. Her broken and bitter tears in the days following the loss had told him enough.

But Enola... before she'd died, she'd told him too, told him of how Lucille had smothered the baby after the boy had refused to stop crying. How his sister had held a pillow over the child's face, and kept it there, until he'd stopped... until he'd stopped breathing.

Lucille believed what she had said. Believed the boy had died on his own. Thomas knew that too, and so he could hold no, true anger against his sister. He understood Lucille suffered these things, sometimes. Suffered delusions, evident too in how she would oft accuse what little staff still remained to them of both minor and major transgressions, threatening their unemployment at every turn, often terminating them without warning whatsoever. 

Thomas never had the courage to contradict her when she did that. Never had the will to tell her no.

What little he did manage was to give their servant's a few pence more with their wages, whenever Lucille saw fit to unjustly harass and expel them from their work.

It wasn't enough, he knew. But it was all he could do. 

But their boy... their son... who had died before they'd even had a chance to name him...

Thomas hasn't been able to stop thinking of him, in these days and weeks following Enola's death.

Hasn't been able to stop thinking about what his former wife had told him Lucille had done. 

He'd known how it hurt Lucille, to see their son so ill and weak. To see what it was their union had produced. A thing unwell and pitiful, unlikely to live anyway past a few months. Knew how hard it had been for his sister to look upon the boy day after day, and listen to his wails, to see how weakly he struggled just to go on. It was him who had been tasked with burying the baby, Lucille telling him to do it anywhere, so long as it was away from the house. He'd chosen a spot out in the fields, far away. He hadn't told Lucille where, because he knew well she wouldn't want to know.

He'd found himself unable to keep from weeping like a child when he'd done the task, his sight blinded by welling thick tears, his breathes choked by heaving sobs.

Thomas had felt such love for the boy. Something so much like the love he felt for Lucille. He'd wanted nothing more than to protect him, to keep him safe and happy and warm, as he did with his sister. He'd been ready to dedicate everything to the boy. He'd felt such great pride in being a father, and had vowed both to himself and Lucille that he would do all in his power to raise their son right, to give him love and acceptance and support. To give him everything their own mother and father had denied to them.

And Lucille had seemed, to him, to want that too. She'd lavished attention on the baby for the first few weeks after his birth, spending nearly every waking moment with him, tending to and caring for him alongside Thomas.

But then... something had seemed to change.

Lucille had begun to grow distant and distracted around the boy. Began spending less and less time with him, until, near the end, she hardly spent more than a moment or two at a time with him before she'd lose her patience and storm from the room.

She'd begun too to chastise Thomas over the time he spent with the child, accusing him of spoiling their son, berating him for paying the baby more attention than he was paying her.

The same as she would take him to task for spending too much time around his wives...

Thomas hadn't understood. This was their son. How could she have been upset with him for giving the boy love and attention? He'd thought of it the same as giving her those things.

But Lucille hadn't seen it as such, and a few weeks later, the boy was dead.

“She killed him.” Enola had said to him one day, out of nowhere, her voice blunt and flat. Thomas had looked at her with confused and frightened eyes, and she'd gone on, without emotion, to tell him. “Your sister. She smothered your son. Because he wouldn't stop crying.” She'd looked back at him with cold, accusing eyes. “You don't see what she is? You don't see what a monster she is?”

Thomas hadn't been able to bear hearing that. He'd stammered out something to her about not understanding, about the pain and suffering Lucille had endured for him, his eyes stinging with threatening tears. But Enola had remained unmoved, pressing him, telling him Lucille cared only for herself, that she would be the end of both of them. But that wasn't true. It wasn't. Lucille loved him. She loved him more than he deserved.

Whatever else his wife had had to say, he couldn't listen. He'd fled the room before she'd had a chance to go on.

But about their son, he'd known she was telling the truth. 

He wasn't angry at Lucille about it. He just didn't understand. It left him feeling sick, a kind of pain inside him like drowning. He didn't understand. 

Like he didn't understand this sudden need to be away from her... away from his sister... from the only love and safety he had ever known. 

Guilt is a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach as he looks back at her now, knowing he's lying. Knowing if he told Lucille of his true plans, she would be furious and sickened in equal measure, her heart broken.

She'd told him to forget the child. To put their son from his mind forever, and he had promised he would. He'd promised.

But he hasn't been able. Oh, how hard he's tried, only for his thoughts to again and again turn back to him... and each time feels like he's committed against Lucille the worst betrayal.

Watching her still, his sister steps forward, and Thomas feels himself tense, his back stiffening, and she must know he's lying. She always knows...

“How long will you be gone?” She asks, her voice calm and controlled.

“J-just a short while.” He stammers stupidly, willing himself not to fidget. 

Another step nearer, her eyes on him penetrating, mistrustful, and Thomas wants to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness.

“You'll be back before sunset.” She says, and it's more a statement than a question.

He nods urgently, both relief and regret surging through him at once. She's given him her permission, but she's too made clear her unhappiness.

“Of c-course.” He says, and he means it. 

He never wants Lucille to be unhappy. Oh, God, he never wants to hurt her.

//

“Master Thomas...”

Thomas nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of the old man's voice behind him, spinning round from where he'd been tacking his horse, a sharp gasp just barely caught in his throat.

Finley is standing there, holding his riding coat, looking up at him with expectant and concerned eyes.

At the sight of him, Thomas instantly relaxes. 

Finley is a fine man. A gentle, loyal man. 

Thomas has known him since he was a boy, and beyond Lucille, he is the only other person who, since that time, has ever really shown him any, true kindness.

Thomas remembers wishing often and hard as a child that Finley could be his real father, though of course he'd never spoken such secret desires aloud to anyone. Not even his sister. Lucille had never held much affection for the old man. Not the way he did, anyway.

“Hello Finley.” Thomas breathes out shakily, forcing a smile onto his lips. “You gave me a bit of a start there.” He laughs, the sound nervous and strained, and he hopes his uneasy state isn't too obvious.

From the expression across Finley's weathered face, it's clear he's given himself easily away.

“You forgot your riding coat Sir.” He says, holding out the garment. “You left it in the kitchen.”

The riding coat... which had been his father's coat... Just like all his clothes had been James Sharpe's before. They couldn't afford new ones... Couldn't afford anything new or good.

Staring down at it a moment, Thomas swallows, seeing the frayed and worn seams, the fine velvet worn nearly bald in places. It's dust ridden from previous rides. 

Thomas suddenly feels a swell of shame, his cheeks heating as he wonders what Finley must truly think of them, how poor and destitute they've become, parodies of what their family name had once signified. Aristocrats without means. It is to him the shame belongs. Lucille has no responsibility in it. As the man of the household, it has always been his responsibility to ensure their financial security and to uphold their reputation.

But even in that, he fails.

“Thank you Finley...” he answers softly as at last he takes the coat from the other man. “I don't know how I forgot it...”

Finley continues watching him as he shrugs the coat on, and Thomas feels uncomfortable under his gaze.

Sometimes he thinks that everyone can see. That everyone knows, what goes on between him and Lucille. What he and Lucille have done...

“Sir...” Finley starts, and again, Thomas nearly jumps at the sound of his voice. Raising his eyes to the servant, he sees the older man looking intently at him, though it isn't a look of judgment. Thomas knows well enough that look. Instead it's again that concern... even sadness, and Thomas doesn't know why Finley should look upon with so.

“You'll forgive my saying so Sir, but...” Finley says, seeming a moment to hesitate, and Thomas feels a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach, his mouth suddenly dry. “You've always been such a gentle boy. A good boy, and so smart.”

“Finley...” Thomas starts, an awful nervousness humming through him. But the old man doesn't seem to hear him, going on.

“You've always been good to me.” Finley says. “Even when you was only a small lad, and had no one there to protect ya, couldn't protect yerself... you never let the cruelty of others turn you cruel...”

“Finley, please...” Thomas tries again, feeling his throat constrict, his eyes stinging painfully. 

But again, the servant goes on.

“I know you love yer sister, Sir. Love her with all yer heart. I see that. And Miss Lucille is a fine lady. I don't mean no disrespect, but... I see the way she talks to you Sir, and... and it isn't right. It isn't right. You treat her so fine. Treat everyone fine. But she talks down to ya Sir. She does. And it isn't right.”

Thomas feels the world spin for a moment, a wave of dizziness and confusion washing through him.

No... no... that isn't right. That isn't right. Lucille only cares... she only cares, only has his best interests at heart. Thomas knows that. Knows because Lucille has told him again and again. He's too naive... too soft to take care of himself. Always has been. Lucille's always seen that in him, and only by her generosity and sacrifice has he been able to depend on her to keep him safe... to see him through a hostile, hateful world.

She's only forced at times to be hard, to be stern, when he gets fanciful and foolish ideas in his childish mind. She never means to be unkind. It's only his fault, his weakness that forces her to it. If he wasn't... wasn't so unable... wasn't such a failure, wasn't so spineless and weak, she wouldn't ever have to be that way. He knows that.

“... She only cares.” He says, voice hardly more than a whisper as he looks down at the hay strewn ground, fingers curling into the material of his riding coat to keep his hands from shaking.

For a moment, the space fills with silence, but for the howling, late fall winds seeping through the stables cracks.

And then Finley says, voice nearly soft as Thomas' own...

“Your heart's too good Sir. They're people in this world who won't hesitate to use that against you.”

The old man says nothing more after that, simply turning and going back out, leaving Thomas alone.

Thomas doesn't know then what it is he feels. Great relief, or sudden, crushingly loneliness.

He doesn't know anything anymore.

He's beginning to think that maybe he never did.

//

“I'm sorry.” Thomas whispers as he stands there, staring bleary eyed down at the small patch of recently churned dirt. 

He wipes clumsily at his eyes with the heel of his palm, before wrapping his arms round his torso, trying vainly to keep the freezing winds at bay. 

They've picked up since he started out from the hall, and they'll be a storm, he thinks.

Quietly he prays it isn't a bad one. That it won't keep him trapped at Allerdale for weeks, like so often they do in the dead of winter.

He couldn't bear it now, he thinks. Not now...

He lowers himself slowly to the ground, crossing his legs, his gaze still fixed on the same patch of dirt.

His son is down there, he thinks. His son is underneath that ground.

He remembers too vividly standing out here, digging and digging, for hours it seemed, until he'd had a hole deep enough to hold the small, stiff body he'd wrapped tight in an old blanket from his and Lucille's own childhood. Remembers picking the lifeless form up and staring down at his cold, dead face. Remembers bursting into useless, pathetic sobs and holding the boy to his chest, rocking him back and forth as if that would somehow warm the life back into him.

But of course it hadn't.

His son had remained dead. An empty husk. And Thomas had eventually accepted that, giving the child's cold face one last kiss before putting him into the hole and covering him up forever with the dirt he'd worked so hard to remove.

He'd worked fast then, feeling his heart hammering, his breath coming fast and shallow, a feeling like panic choking his throat. He hadn't wanted to stay there longer than he had to. He'd wanted it done with.

But even that had felt like a betrayal, like he was running away from what he'd allowed to happen.

Here now is the first he's been back to visit the boy.

“I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.” He says again, laying his hands flat upon the dirt. He bites the inside of his cheek, feeling his throat constrict. “You must hate me.”

He swallows, finally glancing away from the plot.

“Maybe you don't have to. I can hate myself enough for the both of us. Maybe.”

He looks back to the unmarked grave, feeling dizzy.

“Maybe it's better for you like this. There... there isn't much good where we come from. Isn't much hope. I... I wanted to give you something better than what we had, but...”

He trails off.

He doesn't know why he's saying these things. The boy can't hear him. He can't help him now...

Useless... that's all he is. That's all his apologies are. Useless. Just like when he would tell Lucille he was sorry when she would come back up to the nursery, beaten bloody, and he would make her his stupid, useless toys, as if that could ever make up for anything...

The wind howls harder, the air painfully cold, and Thomas wraps his arms about himself again, hunching down.

He sits there a long time. Continues to still when the air grows so frigid, he shakes from it uncontrollably.

Sits there until he sees the sun start to dip lower, the sky growing darker, and he knows then he has to go back.

Only mounts back onto his horse because he knows Lucille will be waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: As always, a huge thank you to all my readers and/or reviewers!


	7. Part 7

When Lucille turns sixteen, she is considered of legal age, and by law, the asylum is obliged to turn her out.

And so, Lucille finds herself on her own on the streets, penniless and without means.

Though it matters nothing to her. She who all her life has lived poor, in so many ways.

If there is one thing in which Lucille can pride herself, it is in this. She knows how to survive. She always has.

As well she knows now she must go and find her brother. Thomas.

Inquiring the staff at the institution had left her with the knowledge that he was currently residing up in Whitehaven, living under the care of their Aunt Florence. A situation, Lucille told herself, which would soon be remedied.

Being now of a legal age to occupy the role of guardian, she would go to her brother and rescue him from the wretch of a woman, and Thomas would be well to be rid of her. After all, their Aunt had known entirely of what their parents did to them, and never had she done a thing to help them.

Lucille could only pray that under the woman's care, her little brother had not suffered any more tortures. Not as she had. As she had, while confined within the walls of that hellish pit of a hospital. Suffering at the hands of the doctors and nurses and the grubby, groping fingers of the orderlies, who made well enough use of her every night.

The doctors and nurses hadn't believed her when she'd tried to tell them what those men were doing to her. No one ever believed the words of a lunatic girl.

It had been the thought of Thomas alone which had kept her from fracturing completely apart. Knowing he would need her, knowing, someday, they would be together again.

For him, for him, she had found the will to go on living. Her sweet, fragile brother, who she knew would never be able to keep himself safe. Who, if she was not there for him, would be set upon for his good and kind nature by all those hateful people, out there. Those people who would bleed him dry, until he was nothing more than an empty, broken husk.

It had been that thought alone, and knowing she couldn't allow it to happen, she couldn't, that had kept her alive.

And so now she finds herself aboard a train, headed for Whitehaven, her passage bought over the last week with gathered up coins from the roads and walkways.

A thrill of excitement runs through her at the imaginings of reuniting with him, and she wonders what he looks like now.

Two years... two years without him. She can hardly believe she'd lasted so long without him by her side.

When last they'd been together, he'd been so frail, so small and sickly, and she wonders if he's grown any stronger.

And she thinks then, strangely, how she hopes he hasn't. Wishes powerfully that he could remain as that sick and fragile boy, that perfect porcelain doll, always. For her.

She closes her eyes, allowing the movement of the train to lull her gently, as she pictures him.

Her Thomas. Her sweet, perfect little angle.

"I'm coming, Thomas." She whispers softly to herself. "I'm coming for you."

/

When she sees him, at first, she scarcely recognizes him at all.

He stands there, looking back at her, and he towers above her.

He remains rail thin, his shoulders still narrow, his face still round with youth and hair still a mess of black curls. But he is a giant in his height, and Lucille feels a sudden, overbearing fear. He is tall like their father, and she can tell, just to look at him, that he will grow taller still, and broad and strong the same.

But then the daze dissipates, and she looks at him truly, and sees looking back at her the same, innocent eyes he has always had, kind and deep with feeling, set against his beautiful, white face, and she knows then... she knows he hasn't changed, knows that he is nothing like their father.

"Thomas." She breathes, and he launches himself forward, her arms opening to receive him as he reaches her, wrapping his skinny limbs round her body and squeezing her desperately tight. His face buries against her shoulder, and suddenly he doesn't seem to tower over her at all as he begins to sob helpless against her.

"Lucille..." he weeps. ":Lucille."

"I'm here Thomas." She tells him, squeezing him back fiercely. "I'm here for you."

/

She doesn't receive much fight out of Aunt Florence for guardianship of Thomas. The woman is their Mother's sister, and a weathered old hag besides, and Lucille can see from the way her brother flinches back every time the crone makes a gesture towards him, that he hasn't been spared from further physical abuse. It sets her blood boiling in rage to think that he'd suffered the horrible bitch's cruelties, while she'd been locked away, unable to help, unable to protect him.

"Take the ungrateful runt then!" She'd hissed when Lucille had told her she would be taking Thomas away now, and it had taken nearly all her self-possession not to murder the cunt then and there.

Thomas had clung to her, unwilling to leave her side a moment, desperate to be with her, and Lucille had smiled in the happiest satisfaction, knowing then that everything would be right again. Everything would be as it always should have been.

She'd gone with Thomas up to his room to help him pack what few things he wished to bring with him, only a few books and some clothes, as well as some money he'd managed to save up in the two years they'd been apart, and then they'd left without ceremony, heading straight back to the station and catching the earliest train they could, back to Cumberland. Back to their real home.

"Where did they have you Lucille?" Thomas asks her as he lies in her arms, the back of his head rested against her shoulder. He looks up at her with his earnest, open gaze, and there is so much genuine concern in his eyes. So much love.

She's missed this, she thinks. Oh, how she's missed him. Missed his love and warmth and kindness.

"Where did they have you really? They... they wouldn't tell me anything, though I asked near every day. They told me you were in a home for girls, b-but I knew that was a lie. I knew it." He tells her, and she smiles at him. At how smart he is. He's always been so very smart. So good at mathematics and design. At building things.

"They locked me away Thomas." She tells him bluntly. "In an insane asylum. They locked me away for getting rid of Mother."

Thomas' face twists in naked despair at her words, his eyes filling once more with tears, turning in her arms, wrapping his own round her shoulders and pulling her against him, pressing his lips to the crown of her head and kissing her.

"I'm sorry. Oh, Lucille, I'm so sorry." He says, his voice thick and trembling. "I-if I'd known, I would have... I... I would have done something, I would have..."

She smiles against him, pulling back after a moment and reaching up, cupping his face in her hands.

"We're together now Thomas." She says. "That's all that matters. We're together like we've always been meant to be."

He nods, sniffling, and he's still so much a child, she thinks.

"D... did they h-hurt you?" He asks, voice hesitant and scared. "Did they h-hurt you in there Lu-Lucille?"

She nods.

"They hurt me very much Thomas." She says. "They raped and beat me near every night."

It's like some kind of wave washing over him then, as her brother begins to sob violently, his thin body shaking uncontrollably as he clings harder to her.

"No!" He wails, over and over. "No, no... I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"I endured it all for you Thomas." She tells him, seeing her chance presented, and so easily. "You understand that? And I would endure a thousandfold worse for you."

He nods desperately.

"I know." He says. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She tells him. "There's nothing you could have done. You are only a child Thomas. A weak, helpless child. You are my burden. It is I who must take care of you."

"B-but..." he pulls back, looking at her with big, wet eyes, full of fear and guilt. "but I sh-should be able to protect you." He insists with trembling lips. "I should. I d-don't want anyone to ever h-hurt you Lucille. I w-won't let them!"

"Sweet little brother." She smiles wider, pulling his face close and kissing him chastely on the lips. "There is a way you can help me. Do you know how?"

"How?" He asks urgently. "H-how Lucille?"

"You must stay with me always, like you promised when you were smaller. Do you remember?"

He nods quickly, with certainty.

"That's good." She goes on. "You must stay with me always and never, ever let anything part us ever again. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

"I u-understand Lucille." He tells her. "And I p-promise, I won't ever let anything part us, ever again. I promise."

"That's a good boy." She says, again kissing his lips. "That's my good Thomas."

/

Lucille considers, as she holds tight to Thomas, the air cold and damp within the car as they travel on, the floor of it strewn with hay, the two of them pressed back into a corner, away from all the other passengers, that perhaps she hasn't thought this as well through as she should have.

They are aristocrats, she thinks, and yet here they are, confined to a mode of travel reserved for peasantry and the lower classes. The press of bodies around her and Thomas makes her feel sick and uneasy, her eyes constantly flitting and searching at every movement and sound, looking to see if they are being attacked.

She expects it. She expects someone to attack them, hurt them, try and rob them perhaps.

Thomas lies asleep in her arms, innocent as always, and unaware of the dangers around them. It's her duty to protect him. And yet she wonders with growing despondency how she can.

They have no money. There's the little Thomas managed to keep, but realistically, Lucille knows that won't last them more than a month, perhaps two at best, and while her brother may be of an age old enough to find work now, she absolutely will not allow it.

He isn't meant for work like that. Her sweet Thomas. Her beautiful, perfect boy.

She'd been terrified when she'd realized Aunt Florence had been hitting him, imagining with stricken dismay that she'd marred his beautiful, white skin, and so, when they'd found a moment alone in his bedroom back in Whitehaven, she'd made Thomas strip off his clothes so she could examine him, only able to breathe in relief when she saw he remained unblemished. He'd told her Aunt Florence never hit with him the cane or switches. She only slapped him, though at times, she used her backhand, hard enough to knock him senseless. Lucille thought to herself that, someday, when they were better secured, she would go back for that woman.

But no, she wouldn't allow Thomas to toil away at some menial, physical labor. Wouldn't allow backbreaking work to ruin his perfect form. And besides all that, it was beneath them.

No, she had to find a way to win them back their fortune and good name.

Her brother had been in school, he'd said. That would have to stop now. She couldn't risk him being so negatively influenced by others. He was impressionable, Thomas. Easily led to trust. Others would use that against him. Would use it to hurt him. They might even try to turn him against her, and the thought alone makes her stiffen in horror where she sits.

She'd almost been sick when he'd told her with actual excitement in his eyes and voice that he'd made friends. She'd chastised him for it.

Oh, her poor brother. He'd nearly started crying when she did.

"They weren't your friends Thomas." She'd told him, and he'd looked so confused.

"But..." he'd started, lost.

"They were just using you. Don't you understand? Remember what Father used to say to you? Remember how he used to tell you you were like a girl?"

Thomas' face had crumpled at the memory, and he'd nodded, stricken in expression, eyes wet.

"Other boys are just like Father." She'd gone on, cupping his cheek gently, her voice matched to action. "They'll lead you along, make you think they like you, only so later they can make a fool of you. You're too sweet Thomas. They see you just as Father did. See you as a girl."

"But I'm not a girl!" Thomas had insisted, upset.

"Of course not." Lucille reassured him. "But you aren't like other boys either. You're more beautiful, more fragile. That's why you have to let me decide. So I can protect you."

Thomas had been distraught for a time, thinking over her words, but eventually, he'd come to see her logic, nodding as he'd wiped at his eyes.

No more schooling then for Thomas. He didn't need it anyway. Didn't need those kinds of people around him, with their ridiculous, toxic ideas.

They would go back to Allerdale, of course, and so their sheltered was assured. The manor couldn't have fallen into too great disrepair in the time they'd been gone, and of course, legally, it now belonged to Thomas.

And then there was the clay. If they could find a way to begin mining it again... workers would be hard to come by with nothing to pay them, and anyway, Lucille didn't much fancy the thought of having others around. If she could banish everyone from their lives, she would.

Thomas shifts in her arms, his face burying against her chest as he mutters something unintelligible.

He's still so fragile, she thinks, as she runs her fingers through his soft hair, looking down at him.

Leaning down, she presses a kiss to his crown.

"Don't worry Thomas." She whispers to him. "I'll find a way to take care of us. And then we'll always be together. Just you and me. No one else. Never anyone else."


	8. Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, just a little bit of a warning for this chapter for incestuous, sexual content.

“Lucille?!” Thomas calls as he walks through the foyer, pulling off his coat as he moves, listening.

He's made it just in time. The sun is just now sinking below the horizon, and he prays Lucille isn't upset. She'd told him before sunset, and he's held to his promise.

There's a quiet now that's fallen over the manor, the foyer growing gradually darker, and an unsettled chill runs through Thomas. He wonders why his sister hasn't yet begun lighting the place. 

Maybe she's become caught up again in her music, though Thomas hears no sound coming from the library.

Still, that and her room are the most likely of places, and being closest to the library, he decides to check there first.

“Lucille?” He calls again, stepping carefully into the room, noticing quickly it too remains dark, the first not even set beneath the mantle.

“... Lucille?” He tries again, his voice suddenly weak and uncertain. He feels abruptly frightened, a thousand horrible scenarios running through his head. Thoughts of horrible men coming and stealing her away, locking her away in an institution, hurting her...

“L-Lucille!” He calls more urgently as his imagination runs rampant, his eyes stinging as he turns in the space, eyes searching frantically through the murky shadows. 

“I shouldn't have left her alone,” he thinks desperately. “I shouldn't have...”

“Welcome back baby brother.” 

A sharp gasp tears up from his throat as he spins around and sees Lucille standing there, a few feet from him, smiling at him knowingly.

His heart hammers painfully inside his chest, his breath harsh as he stares back at her, wondering where she'd come from.

“Lu-Lucille...” he stammers, frame tingling with fear, both from the awful worry of before and the unexpected appearance of her.

His sister continues smiling at him, stepping closer until she's nearly pressed against him, her hands coming up and resting on his shoulders.

“You only just made it.” She says softly. “I worried for you.” 

Thomas swallows thickly, the need to apologize almost overwhelming in him.

“I'm sorry.” He says, reaching out for her. “I shouldn't have stayed out so long.”

Anything else he might have said is lost when her hands take hold his face and she pulls him down to meet her, her lips pressing roughly against his own.

Thomas at first stiffens, taken aback by the sudden, aggressive affection, though as the moments pass, and he feels Lucille's tongue pressing impatiently, he lets himself succumb, eyes closing, opening his mouth and kissing her back with as great passion, his arms coming round her back.

It's dizzying to him, the sensation of her tongue, the warmth of her body pressed against his own, the feel of her fingers curling into his hair, scratching against his scalp.

He moans loudly as her knee comes up, pushing between his legs, up against his groin, a shock of want uncurling instantly in the pit of his stomach.

It's only a moment after, when he realizes what he's done, that consciousness takes him, and again he grows rigid, fear suddenly encompassing him at the prospect of being caught. 

He's come to know now how wrong it is what they do. How wrong society deems it. And it frightens him. Frightens him what should happen if they're ever discovered.

“... Lucille...” he breathes against her mouth, trying to pull away. “Lucille, we... w-we should stop. We might be s-seen.”

Her only response is to snake her arms round his neck, pulling him harder down, her knee pressing more urgently, rubbing now against him, and he barely chokes back the gasp of pleasure which threatens in the back of his throat.

“I've sent all the men away for the night.” She tells him breathlessly. “No one will see us.”

“Lucille...” he says her name again, the world seeming to spin as he clamps his lids more tightly shut, burying his face against her shoulder.

He's torn, his mind screaming to him ceaselessly that this is wrong... that this shouldn't be. Shame and guilt like a storm in his head.

But oh, God, it feels so good, and he can't... he can't think right... he can't think when she's...

Her arms come away from around his neck then and he feels her fingers at the waistband of his trousers, beginning deftly and quickly to undo the laces, and again it's all he can do to keep from moaning as anticipation builds, his belly warm with lust.

Her hand disappears into his breeches, slipping past his undergarments, taking firm hold of his penis. The contact is warm, and thoughtlessly, Thomas bucks into her grip, pressing his face harder against her shoulder.

“L-Lucille, p-please...” he begs, and he isn't even sure what he's begging for. “this is... this isn't...”

She gives him a few, hard tugs, the pad of her thumb swiping too softly against the tip of his penis, already hardened fully, and he can't keep back the groan now which slips past his lips.

And then her hand is suddenly gone, and she's taken hold of him by the hips, spinning him round almost violently, faced away from her. It all happens so quickly, Thomas has no time to even question what she's doing, before he feels her hands placed firmly along his shoulders, feels her kick his legs viciously apart, her own wrapping round his left ankle and sweeping his feet out from under him.

He goes down hard to his knees, her hands on his shoulders pushing him down with the loss of balance.

Thomas eyes widen in confusion and apprehension, and she gives his back a hard shove.

“On your stomach.” She tells him.

“Lucille...?” He starts, lost.

“Now!” She snaps, and he knows better than to question her further, falling forward, until he's lying flat on his belly.

He feels her straddle him from behind, her strong fingers hooking into the band of his pants and pulling them down suddenly, along with his undergarments, past his butt and hips, until they're tangled around his ankles.

“Arms out.” She tells him. “Flat out in front of you.”

He doesn't hesitate, doing as she's ordered without question.

And then she's forcing her hand underneath him, and his lifts his hips, catching on, screwing his eyes shut as he feels his palm running smoothly down the line of his belly, past his pubic hair before wrapping again round his penis, just holding him.

“Down.” She says, and he lets his hips fall, his teeth clenching at the sensation of her just holding him like that, his groin and penis pushed up against her fist. He wants to move. Oh, God, he wants to move so badly, but he knows not to yet. Not until she says.

Several seconds pass without words, the only sound filling the space that of Thomas' heavy breathes. 

And then, very suddenly, there is a sharp sucking noise, lasting but a moment, and without warning, he feels Lucille slide her finger up into his anus, finding his prostrate quickly and hooking the digit against it, giving it a firm stroke.

Thomas gasps, shocked and abruptly overcome by a wave of pleasure.

“O-oh Gooood...” he moans, and he can't help it anymore, can't wait, his hips pushing forward, into her hand, his legs spreading wider beneath her, and he knows he must look disgusting, lying there on his stomach, half naked and spread out on the floor. But he can't care. He can't...

The pad of her thumb once more finds the head of his penis, soaked now with pre-cum, and she presses the edge of her nail against the slit, almost painfully.

Thomas chokes, the warmth in his belly spreading, doubling in intensity as her finger in his ass gives another stroke against his prostrate.

And then her face is beside his, and she's whispering against his ear.

“Fuck my hand, baby brother.” She tells him.

And he does. He can't bear to wait any longer. 

He pushes against her, rutting helplessly, wishing desperately that she would move her hand with him, give him something more.

Her finger inside him is driving him mad with desire, teasing as it flutters against the sensitive spot, only now and then giving a satisfying stroke, her nail pressing only slightly firmer against his penis' slit with each thrust of his hips.

“L-L-Luc-cille p-please...” he begs, and he can't believe how pathetic he sounds. How wanton. “Please...”

But she refuses to give him more than that, simply holding her position, every now and again pressing her finger against his insides, letting her nail dig a little deeper, until Thomas is absolutely sick with desire and want, stars bursting behind his closed eyes, his thrusts growing by the moment more and more desperate, more sloppy and quick. He writhes, whimpers loudly, pitiful mews between his gasping moans and ragged breath.

“Oh Lu-Lucccille... Luc-cille...” he groans, begging her.

“You like that?” Lucille says, her voice calm and quiet.

“Y-yyes...” Thomas stutters, his mouth falling open.

“You want more?” She presses.

“Yeeeeeeessssss...” he moans. “Oh G-God, y-yes Lucille, p-pleeease...”

“Tell me you love me Thomas.” She says against his ear.

“I loo... love you Lucille, I... Oh God...”

“Tell me you love only me.” She hisses.

“O-only you... I l-love only y-youuuuuu...”

He's so close now. So close, the warmth and pleasure built to a peak inside him. A few more thrusts, a few more strokes and he'll be... he'll be...

Her hands pull away suddenly, the weight of her on his back disappearing, and Thomas' head spins.

He sputters out a choked breath, his eyes snapping open, wet with tears.

He feels like he's going to explode. Oh God, he... he's so close, he...

“Turn over.” Lucille orders him, and Thomas scrambles to obey, desperate for her to finish him.

It hurts... it hurts being so close and not being able to relieve it. 

As he turns over onto his back, lifting himself up onto his elbows, he sees her standing there, removed from him, staring down at him with open disgust, her lip curled in repulsion.

He looks back at her with confusion and need.

“Look at you.” She sneers, shaking her head. “Pathetic...”

“... Lucille?” Thomas starts, his confusion sliding into worry, even panic, his groin aching with un-saciated desire.

“I told you to be back before sun down.” She goes on as if she hasn't heard him. “Yet you return as the sun is setting.”

“Lu-Lucille, no...” he starts. “please, I didn't...”

“And still you mope like some sad little dog, your head hanging for that bitch woman, when I told you to forget her. What is this new behavior Thomas? You think it right now, to go against me like this? To spit on all I've done for us!?”

Thomas can feel his face crumpling, the tears in his eyes growing thicker, throat constricting.

“No Lucille. No, I... please... that isn't...”

“You misbehave and so you must pay the consequence.” She talks over him, unmoved. “This is it.”

Thomas chokes on a desperate sob as he realizes what she means.

Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts. He's right there. Right there. Just one more stroke...

Involuntarily, his hips jerk up, rutting against thin air, his penis swollen with the need to ejaculate.

“Lucille, please...” he begs again. 

She laughs, shaking her head.

“No.” She tells him, her amusement draining away quickly as it came. “You're to remain like that.”

Thomas' heart beats in horror against his ribs, his body beginning to tremble with the need to release himself.

“Please L-Lucille, please i-if... if you w-won't, then let me...” he begins thoughtlessly to reach for himself, hand shaking.

Lucille steps forward with blinding quickness, her own hand lashing out, long nails tearing open his skin as she slaps his hand down.

“No!” She snaps. “You will not touch yourself! Is that understood?”

Thomas can feel his face crumple, tears welling thicker in his eyes.

“Is that understood!?” She snaps again, and he nods, turning away, his hand curling to a fist as he presses it against his mouth, choking down a whimper.

“Good.” She says, stepping back and straightening.

She glares down at him a moment longer, before at last turning, heading towards the foyer.

“I'll make us dinner.” She says.

And then she's gone, leaving Thomas alone, half naked and trembling on the floor, his body aflame and agonized with unfulfilled need.

He shoves his fist past his teeth, biting down hard, muffling behind it a pushed down wail.


	9. Part 9

Lucille watches Thomas across the table from her, watches as he picks and fidgets at his scratched hand.

She shouldn't have done that to him, she thinks, a vague feeling of guilt working away at her insides. She hadn't meant to hurt him, it was only...

It was only that he needed to be shown. 

Thomas, for as intelligent as he was, for as brilliant at making and building things, could too be so woefully ignorant, even stupid. He seemed constantly to forget the things she told him, seemed constantly to question her and often confused by her choices, no matter how many times she'd explained to him her reasoning. 

She'd told him to be back before the sun set, and as always, the demand was for his own good. It was dangerous out there at night, on the moors. There were wolves and other, vicious animals, not to mention the hazards of cold, and what she could see was a coming snow storm. If Thomas were to become lost out there in the dark, in the freezing air and winds, he could die. 

But Thomas was so like a child, sometimes. Disobeying because he simply knew no better. Failing to listen because he didn't understand.

And misbehaving children, as often they both had been taught, required at times a hard discipline to make them see the true error of their ways.

She had been taught that lesson particularly well, but now she began to see her own fault in sparing her brother their parent's punishments when she could. 

He remained sheltered, and thus naive to the dangers of the outside world. He still required a firm hand.

It was for his own good.

But he's sitting there now, sulking, picking at his hand and not eating. He's cleaned up, washed the sweat and tears from his face, combed his hair neatly and fixed his clothes.

“You aren't hungry?” She asks, trying, and failing, to keep the irritation out of her own voice. She hates seeing him like this. Hates seeing him so plainly unhappy.

It scares her. Makes her think he's... he's going to...

Thomas doesn't look at her as he mutters out...

“Not really.”

Lucille says nothing for a moment, thinking how best to handle the situation.

She isn't going to give Thomas what he wants. 

He's just like all men in that regard. Sex is a powerful motivator, and she knows well how to use it to her advantage. It was important for him to understand what he did wrong, and what would happen when he acted against her orders. If she gave into his desires now, it would ruin the lesson entirely.

“You need to eat.” She says flatly. “You'll get sick if you don't.”

“... I don't care.” Thomas mutters again, still not looking at her, turning his face aside.

“Well that's fine.” She replies quickly, irritation sliding into anger. “But I do. I won't have you getting ill Thomas. Besides which, you need to keep up work on your machine. You're close, and once you've finally gotten it working, then we can forget all this business and reclaim what's rightfully ours.”

At last, Thomas looks up at her, his eyes hard and upset, his mouth set into a thin, angry line.

“Rightfully ours?” He asks, incredulous. “Is Enola's fortune rightfully ours? Is the money we've spent to make the machine work rightfully ours?”

“It is now.” Lucille answers smoothly, though she feels a tendril of apprehension in her gut at the very real anger in her brother's voice. “Legally, her fortune now belongs to you.”

Thomas only stares at her for long seconds, his mouth fallen open in some unsaid remark, his expression astonished.

“Lucille,” he finally starts again. “this isn't...”

“Isn't what Thomas?” She cuts him off. “Isn't right? Is that what you're going to say to me again?”

He looks away from her, his jaw clenching tight.

“... Why do you always have to be so unkind?” He asks, his voice hardly a whisper.

In an instant, Lucille's fear melts away, turning quickly into rage.

“Unkind?” She asks. “Is that what you think I am? Is that how you see me?”

Thomas doesn't answer, only hunching down in his seat, his face bowing farther aside, and very suddenly, Lucille feels hatred for him. Wants to take his perfect, beautiful face and smash it against the wooden table. 

Coward, she thinks bitterly. He's such a coward. Always making her do all the dirty work, always making her decide...

“All I do for us, and you look upon me with such disdain.” She says, rising from her seat. “You truly are an ingrate.”

“Lucille, please...” he starts, but she talks right over him.

“While you leisurely tinker away at your useless toy of a machine, who do you think it is that makes it all possible? Who secures the funds for you to idle your days away with your tools and trinkets? Who is it that gave life to your silly dreams? Can you answer for me brother? Can you tell me?”

“Lucille, I didn't mean...” he tries again, but she isn't interested in hearing his excuses this time. Not this time. Her coward, weakling brother, who she's given everything for, and still he spits in her face.

“Oh, you never mean these things, do you Thomas. And yet, they continue to happen. Do you know... do you have any concept, of the things I've gone through for you? The ways I've suffered?”

And there it is. What she's been looking for. 

That familiar guilt which flits across his face as at last he looks up at her. She has him now. Has him where she needs him.

Her own face crumples in despair, her eyes welling with tears, and she turns from him, bringing her hand to her mouth and stifling back a sob.

It's easy, to call these tears to her eyes and voice. Easy as she thinks how important it is, how necessary, to keep both Thomas and herself safe. To make him see, to make him understand.

It's only half forced then, as she allows her fear to swell again, allows it to take control.

She's crying truly then, and it's too much for her sensitive and sweet brother.

She hears him stand up from his seat and move towards her.

“Lucille, please.” He starts. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Please don't cry, please...”

She stands still as he comes up behind her, and a moment later, she feels his arms wrap round her, pulling her against him, pressing his lips to her crown and kissing her gently.

“I'm sorry.” He whispers again, and she reaches up, clasping her hands round his forearm.

Relief floods through her.

He's listening to her. He understands. That's all that matters. So long as he understands, as he knows, then it will be alright. All of it. 

“I love you Thomas. Don't you know that?” She says, smiling faintly to herself.

“Yes Lucille,” he answers urgently, pressing his cheek to her crown. “of course I know it. Please Lucille, don't doubt that. I'm sorry if I caused you to. That wasn't... wasn't my intent. I know how much you do for us, for... for me.”

Her hands round his forearm squeeze firmly in approval, and she hears him breath out in relief.

“I know I seemed unkind earlier.” She goes on, soothing. “And perhaps I was harsh, but Thomas...”

She turns then in his hold, his arms loosening immediately round her. She takes his face in her hands, smiling wistfully up at him. 

“I only fear for you my love. You must understand.”

“I do.” He tells her, his brow lined heavy with regret and pain, with knowing it's him who has done wrong. “I do. I'm sorry.”

Her smile widens.

“Come here.” She tells him, pulling his face down to meet her, kissing him softly on the lips.

She can feel him relax into it, already disarmed and compliant.

Yes, she thinks with satisfaction, everything will be alright.

//

“See Lucille! See!” Thomas runs up to her, his tiny hands bearing another of his wooden carvings. 

An elephant, this time, intricately crafted, with curving tusks and big ears. The detailing of its skin, the oddly real texture and wrinkles of it, is astonishing, she thinks, as she takes the trinket from her brother and examines it closely.

He's been working on it since yesterday morning, and now it is well into the evening of the following day.

Thomas is smiling up at her, clearly proud and excited.

“I made it for you.” He declares happily. “D-do you like it?”

“It's very nice.” Lucille tells him as she continues to turn the thing in her hands.

She has dozens of the things now. Each a different animal. As well as Thomas' little wind up mechanical toys, ones that walk and jump or flap their wings. 

He makes something for her near every day, it seems. 

Absently she thinks how very bored she's grown lately with his efforts to please her, standing there begging for her approval and appreciation each time he presents another of his trinkets to her.

Still, she tells him thank you, before dropping it carelessly into the pile of all his other gifts.

When she turns back around, she sees her brother staring back at her, a look of plain worry and even hurt etched into his angelic features.

Her hugs his arms round himself, chewing his lower lip.

“... Are you angry at me?” He asks, and he sounds as if he's on the verge of tears.

Lucille sighs.

She's tired today. 

They've been cooped up here for the past week, with Mother and Father going at each other almost constantly, their raised voices filtering up through the floors, past their barred door.

The sounds of Father hitting Mother have been the worst, Lucille knowing, if it gets bad enough, she'll have to tend to Mother, as always.

Worst of all is how it frightens Thomas.

He clings to her when Mother and Father fight, shaking and crying silently. He knows better than to sob aloud, lest he draw their parents attention.

It's difficult for her to console him at those times, so certain is he that Father or Mother will turn their rage and hatred for each other upon them.

Difficult, because it has happened enough times in the past to justify his fear.

When Mother comes, she beats Lucille, and Thomas can do naught but huddle helplessly in the corner and sob desperately until it is over.

When Father comes, it is almost always Thomas he goes after. Fragile Thomas, who cannot take it as she can. Who's frail and small body crumples and breaks so easily beneath the weight of his blows.

Lucille throws herself in front of her brother then, and prays it is enough to distract Father from him. 

Sometimes it does.

More often, it does not.

Her only consolation then is that Father rarely uses anything but his fists, and so his strikes leave no scars. Only deep bruising. Things which fade in days and weeks. 

Not like Mother's blows, who's cane tears and rends flesh easily as a knife, the marks of it left forever.

“I'm not angry at you.” She says, turning from him, towards the rooms single window, staring out through it. “I just wish we could leave the room.”

“We aren't allowed when Mother and Fath...” Thomas starts, and Lucille feels her temper break.

“I know!” She hisses, voice pitching louder, and she hears Thomas breath in sharply, almost a gasp.

She turns, seeing him, his arms wrapped tighter round himself, his shoulders hunched.

He looks frightened, and she realizes an instant later it's of her that he is.

It sends, strangely, both a pang of horror and excitement through her. To know he fears her. To know he thinks her more powerful than he. Her, who has never had any power, any control over anything.

“Come here.” She tells him, and he obeys, walking towards her, unresisting as she takes him in her arms and squeezes him tight against her.

“I love you Thomas. Don't you know that?”

“Yes.” He says, pressing his face against her chest. “Of course I do.”

Lucille smiles, pressing her lips to his crown.

“Good.” She tells him. “That's good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gah, so... I'm not entirely happy with the direction my first attempt at “Crimson Peak” fan fic went, so I'm posting this new try up. I think I'll make it multi-part, but I'm still trying to figure out how to write these two and their dynamic, so, there you go. Anyway, I hope you guys liked it, and as always, feedback is always appreciated!


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